Page 26 of The Play

“You’d be a good scout. And a good coach.”

“Just don’t put me in the sales department, okay?” Deacon wasn’t as suavely charming as his best friend, Jem, but every once in awhile, he apparently enjoyed carelessly hammering away at Grant’s good intentions.

Tonight he was making free with them.

“I don’t know, you could sell quite a few season tickets, I’m sure.” You could sell anything to me, and I’d buy it.

“I think you might be biased,” Deacon said.

Oh, if he only knew.

“Maybe a little.” Grant finished his beer and noticed that most of the room had cleared out. The families had taken their kids home. Carter and Ian were just leaving, some of the other linemen trailing behind them.

Grant thought he heard Carter mention something about the Pirate’s Booty. Hoped that wouldn’t result in a frantic phone call in the early morning hours. But then, with Ian around and Carter happier and more settled than Grant had ever seen him, he no longer worried as much as he had.

“Looks like the party’s winding down,” Deacon noted. He must’ve noticed Grant’s gaze as it took in the mostly empty room. The caterers were breaking down the demolished buffet table. Darcy was nowhere to be seen, but he already knew she and her minions would pop back in late tonight or early in the morning to clean up the decorations.

Including that ridiculous turkey.

Anytime now Deacon would give a reluctant sigh and say he was heading home. Alone. Grant would keep his mouth shut and not ask to come with him.

It didn’t matter how many times they did it, Grant disliked it each and every goddamn time.

“I could use some air,” Deacon said and glanced over at Grant. “How about you?”

Grant opened his mouth, too ready to give his rote reply, then snapped it shut again, because he realized Deacon hadn’t followed their normal script.

“Uh, um,” Grant hesitated. Danger, danger, danger, his brain cried, complete with red flashing lights. But air wasn’t dangerous, was it? No, it was just air. How could air be dangerous? You needed it to breathe.

“Just up to our spot,” Deacon said, shrugging like it was no big deal if Grant said no. But Grant could see the tense line of his shoulders, the earnestness in his gaze.

Grant’s mother had always told him he was too curious for his own good.

Our spot.

Not just his, anymore, but ours.

What was Deacon up to? There was only one way for Grant to find out.

“Sure,” Grant said and followed Deacon out the door.

The elevator they took to the top floor of the practice facility was bright, but after they exited it, the hallways of the office level were dark, hushed, intimate.

Grant pressed his hands together behind him and gave himself a very firm lecture, even as his heartbeat accelerated.

They’d gone up there lots of times. Usually separately, running into each other by accident. He couldn’t remember every going up deliberately, together, but that didn’t have to mean anything. They were friends, right? What did it matter if they went up there together?

Grant took a deep breath of air as soon as they hit the platform, and even though it was late November, the Charleston night was still plenty balmy.

Unfortunately, Grant thought they could have used a nice dose of frigid air to bring both of them to their senses.

“Better?” Grant asked as he leaned against the railing, keeping a scrupulous two-foot distance between his arm and Deacon’s.

They’d been too close downstairs. In the best kind of way.

“Yeah,” Deacon said. Shot Grant a surprisingly lopsided grin. “Not that it was bad before.”

But now we’re alone.

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